NYC week 1.2

NYC week 1.1

you're innocent when you dream

It's such a sad old feeling
the fields are soft and green
it's memories that I'm stelaing
but you're innocent when you dream
when you dream
you're innocent when you dream

I would change for you but, babe, that doesn't mean I'm gonna be a better man

Favorite song.



(The National and St. Vincent)

Cold ways kill cool lovers
Strange ways we used each other
Why won't you fall back in love with me?
There ain't no way we're gonna find another
The way we sleep all summer
So why won't you fall back in love with me?

Combing over Broken Cross I held on you
Haunted by the ghost of something new

dream come true

Modern day "ojos de perro azul"

Vitalic - Poison Lips from Seiji Ito on Vimeo.

Frank O'Hara

In Memory of My Feelings

My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent
and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.

My quietness has a number of naked selves,
so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves
from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons
and have murder in their heart!
though in winter
they are warm as roses, in the desert
taste of chilled anisette.
At times, withdrawn,
I rise into the cool skies
and gaze on at the imponderable world with the simple identification
of my colleagues, the mountains. Manfred climbs to my nape,
speaks, but I do not hear him,
I'm too blue.
An elephant takes up his trumpet,
money flutters from the windows of cries, silk stretching its mirror
across shoulder blades. A gun is "fired."
One of me rushes
to window #13 and one of me raises his whip and one of me
flutters up from the center of the track amidst the pink flamingoes,
and underneath their hooves as they round the last turn my lips
are scarred and brown, brushed by tails, masked in dirt's lust,
definition, open mouths gasping for the cries of the bettors for the lungs
of earth.
So many of my transparencies could not resist the race!
Terror in earth, dried mushrooms, pink feathers, tickets,
a flaking moon drifting across the muddied teeth,
the imperceptible moan of covered breathing,
love of the serpent!
I am underneath its leaves as the hunter crackles and pants
and bursts, as the barrage balloon drifts behind a cloud
and animal death whips out its flashlight,
whistling
and slipping the glove off the trigger hand. The serpent's eyes
redden at sight of those thorny fingernails, he is so smooth!
My transparent selves
flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing
without panic, with a certain justice of response
and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa.


Frank O'Hara

Rilke

Girl

Others on lengthy wanderings
to the darksome poets are forced to fare;
must always be asking a traveler
if he's not seem one singing there
or laying his hands on strings.
Only girls will never ask
what bridge leads to images;
will smile merely, brightlier than necklaces
of pearl against silver bowls unfurled.

All doors from their lives are entrances
into a poet
and into the world.


-Rainer Maria Rilke

sound of silence

Favorite version.

when you're meant to be

no, no, no, no, noise
a new song untitled.
words on invisible lines
ripped from the dotted line.
ads on walls,
ripped corners four sides.
riptide monuments
wash ashore rest assured.

fly

ursula: painting and magical powers seem very much the same. sometimes i’m unable to paint a thing.

kiki: you mean it? then what happens? without even thinking about it i used to be able to fly. now i can’t even begin to remember how i ever managed to do it.

ursula: at times like that, you know what i do? paint. that gets rid of my frustration.

kiki: but still if i can’t fly..

ursula: then stop trying. take long walks, look at the scenery, doze off at noon dont even think about flying. then suddenly you’ll be able to fly again.